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Like Melville
by Zakary Zide
Like Melville, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote.
I guess this explains, in part, why I am writing to you from one of the 7008
islands in the Philippines. As a designer and human ecologist, I seek
inspiration from the vitality and sense of urgency that exist in the wild,
untamed earth. Like you, I am drawn to places of concentrated aesthetic
splendor and abundant biodiversity.
Wandering like an amphibious nymph through the Matutinao Valley, I slip into an acquiescent world: a natural dimension where every all-knowing
nook and assiduous cranny vibrate with unusual clarity and potency.
This is a bold, inviting and wistful watershed, scaled to perfection for
both intrepid inner and outer exploration.
Intermittent river walking and trail climbing lead me through lush equatorial jungle, forest villages and coconut groves. It is refreshing to experience truly 'organic' communities; places where the local environment provides the majority of the people's needs, and the people tend the earth with appreciation and respect.
Onward, I journey past snakes, frogs, macaques and giant black and yellow polka-dotted monitor lizards. Slowly and forever up I go, constantly caught flat-footed in a softly turbulent tango with an untiring supply of butterflies.
Eventually the trail dead ends at a lazy bend in the river. To my left, a man
checks his fishing traps while standing on a bamboo raft.
In front of me, atop a waterfall, a family of ten - the whole of several generations - is bathing, washing clothes, laughing and filling jugs in the
rock dimpled, ritual affirming waters. In as much as the river provides for these people, they are, in a palpable sense, children of the Matutinao.
The waterfall is an achingly sonorous sight -a singing staircase, really. Fifteen feet high from the first cascade down to the last where the base of the flirtatious falls intermingles with the see-through turquoise waters below.
I can take it no longer. I drop my day pack and slowly, respectfully make my way into the river. Cautiously I swim toward the family. We make eye contact and acknowledge our good intentions with spontaneous smiles and laughter. I climb the cataract and discover a gushing gap in the mountain - an apparently unrelenting supply of fresh water – the source of the falls. I stand transfixed at the sight of this sacred spring.
Now you have to understand, this isn't just a trickle, vaguely dripping from a rock. This is a veritable cave, a good ten feet across and four feet high. I'm talking about hundreds of cubic feet per minute of cold, clean fresh water. It literally pulsates out of the mountain, breathing, beating. This is where life comes from.
My mind starts to wander. I pick up on a vibe, a story if you will, written in water, stone and human bone. The presence of those who have come before me is strong here; I suddenly feel bound like an intergenerational magnet to past and future generations. This is a powerful, life-giving place that has seen many things; given and received many blessings. I wonder what those myriad scenes of offering looked like? Sounded like? What languages, what tongues?
How long have forest people been hiking over these jungle hills on footpaths of unknown antiquity to reach your mouth, oh mountain? What did they joke about as they made their way to perform simple chores at your fresh water shores? Turning on the tap at home is nothing like this.
Suddenly I have the feeling that there are eyes watching me. I turn around to see if the family is still there. They are, and again, we laugh. Methodically I make my way down the falls and swim back across the river.
Inspired by this watery womb, I sink down onto the banks of the river, and into a reservoir of words that dwell deep within. I am quickly immersed in an osmotic world that transcends thought. It flows like the river regardless of cognitive debris. When this inner river speaks, you cannot help but listen. Urban, rural or wild, it doesn't matter. Everyone and everything is down stream from here.
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